Scarlet Gold and Sable Heart
by Thermit
Summary: They say you're a necromancer whose greed was so great that in exchange for gold, you traded your heart," whispered the lithe, hazel eyed figure. "Your wealth is bathed in blood while your heart decays..."


Disclaimer: Artemis Fowl and all affiliated characters are not mine. They belong to Eoin Colfer and whoever else he says it belongs to. Moreover, references to generic fantasy terms were pulled from various fantasy and D&D sources. More specific terms will be given proper specific citations. The bonewall spell was something I pulled out from Diablo II.

Author's note: Just a side story I was playing with while working on Rise of the Fomorians. Don't worry; I haven't given up on it. Hmm… a Halloween story perhaps? Not sure to continue it.

Genre: AU. The first AU I've seen in this fandom so far, I think.

Prologue: Summoner of the Undead

Smoke hung like a thick cloud over the battlefield. Carrion birds circled some distance overhead, their harsh cries a requiem for all the dead and dying on the bloodstained grass. In the gloom, it would have been easy to think that the plain was hilly and uneven. But the vultures and the smell of the dead, the smell of flesh and freshly spilt blood, gave it away. A cold, poisonous air crawled low to the ground among the bodies, some mangled beyond recognition and some having received no greater though still fatal wound than a deep thrust of steel into their body. Blood congealed, slow and sticky, though the life fluid was still warm. The battle had been recent.

A figure, hooded and cloaked, glided along the site, carefully picking its way among the bodies. As gracefully as a shadow, it moved, passing lightly over the dead and discarded weapons before finally coming to a halt where a banner comprised of a golden griffon amidst twin red suns was held upraised. The dead man at its base, whose eyes stared unseeingly yet frozen in such pain, had evidently used the long pole as a support. The wood had sunk deep into the ground, further testifying the fresh if fleeting burst of strength of the standard bearer at his final moments. Foolish man.

The figure took a few more steps before pausing. Four, no, six soldiers were approaching. They were heavily muscular in physique, well armed with bastard swords and fortified shields. Upon their pole shields was the distinct crest of the House of Basulu: a basilisk poised for the poisonous strike. Greed and bloodlust emanated from their expressions and the eager smiles of their teeth, which seemed to resemble those of a hunting cat. The cloaked figure muttered an irritated curse.

"Look what we found, boys. A stranger in a nice, warm little cloak. Me an' the boys are awfully cold. Why don't ye do us all a favor and give us the cloak. We might even let you live…" spoke one who advanced ahead of his companions. From his tattered, brown clothing and his very presence in the battlefield, the figure knew that this was but a footsoldier, at best, in Lord Ptier's army.

"Approach and you die," stated the figure, in a voice that rivaled the northern winter's frigidness yet for all that spoken with the careless grace and elegance of one well bred.

The soldiers checked their advance, surprised. They were little accustomed to solitary figures showing courage, especially not in these darkening times. The threat was spoken softly, but with true earnestness that had little to do with force. Nay, it was spoken with open honesty. The very tone chilled the blood. The soldier who had spoken first muttered lowly before demanding, "Who are ye that pass amongst the dead of the Griffin's armies and what is the nature of your travel? Make your answer quick or ye shall find yourself never needing to wonder how we killed these men."

"My identity and my business are of little concern to you. As for Griffin's armies as you speak… don't make me laugh. Your ragtag band ambushed a small regiment of the Griffin's army as they were proceeding home from a hard battle beforehand," replied the figure in a disdainful, impassionate voice. "Leave me. Your threats are useless and pathetic."

The soldiers flinched at having the nature of their conquests so easily perceived. "Well ye'll excuse us if we don' find yourself particlary dangerous…" growled the soldier, concluding the moment for talk. At a slight shake of his head, the five others spread around the lone figure.

"I feel it fair to warn you, seeing as you're so stupidly intent on attacking me, that I'm at great advantage and you'll all die within three breaths of the seven moons should you come any closer," stated the figure calmly.

"We'll see about that!" roared the soldiers, charging forward with bastard weapons aimed to kill. They never reached their target. Unearthly light spilled from the figure's hands hidden in the folds of his cloak and the light rushed to the bodies surrounding them. In one moment they were frozen corpses, in another they were animated figures blocking the soldiers from the boy. One hapless enough not to be able to check his forward rush was impaled with a spear from an undead warrior. The five left gave startled yelps of horror and backed away, slipping amongst the dead. Though they turned to run, they were given no quarter. Three of the undead pursued their prey with untiring stamina while others hurled their weapons with deadly accuracy. Two found swords sticking through their chests. Some turned to fight desperately, yet fruitlessly. In their desperation, they might have won, but their opponents were already dead.

The mouthy soldier was the last to die. He fell, one leg broken from the fight, and his pain-glazed eyes were directed towards the figure he had threatened earlier. Six undead gathered around him, spears and swords pointed at this body. The soldier gurgled, fear choking him, "Fo-Fow-" As one, the six stabbed the soldier repeatedly 'till the soldier's very bones were crushed underneath the fierce assault and he never was able to finish his sentence.

The figure's dark cloak of warm, woven wool shifted in the slight breeze, but also from the figure's harsh breathing. Though he had not moved since the entire battle, his shoulders heaved as though from a great exertion. Finally, the figure threw back the cowl revealing a youth with a face as pale as moonlight, hair like a raven's feathers, and ice-cold blue eyes. The blue eyes were fixed in a point far off, still trying to regain strength, when a massive shadow fell upon him.

The youth whirled around, a wall of bones immediately snapping into place around him. The bones had been collected from the generous helpings on the ground, some dripping fresh blood.

"Whoa, Master. It's me," assured the mammoth man who cast the shadow. "I didn't mean to startle you." Unlike the youth, the man was extremely large, and tall. He wore a long cloak that barely hid his muscular form. Though broad shouldered and tall like the previous soldiers, he was clean-shaven and he held his hands submissively to his much shorter "master."

"Obviously, you did," was the icy, caustic reply. He forestalled any further apologies by quickly asking, "How did your mission go? Was the commander killed?"

"Yes, Master Artemis," replied the manservant humbly. "You'll be pleased to know that his death was allowed even by Lord Ptier. They were a renegade troop."

The boy barely acknowledged his servant's admission, instead turning to gaze at the battlefield. Technically speaking, slaying another lord's servant constituted a serious case of infraction though not too dire. After all, lords had many servants and one couldn't keep track of them all. But slaying an entire troop of servants, especially soldiers, was indeed something to be avoided if you valued neutrality in your relationships with the lord.

Nonetheless… Lord Ptier said this was a renegade troop. If, on the one hand, it was indeed a renegade troop, to venture so far into Fowl grounds indicated the dire standing people see them in, regardless of whether Lord Ptier approved of the massacre or not. On the other hand, this may not even a renegade troop. It just might be a ruse designed to test out the defenses of Fowl territory. In which case, they were on very dangerous waters.

The huge manservant frowned subconsciously at the pensive though still frosty expression on his master's face. He touched the youth's shoulder gently, grateful that the bonewall had dropped. "Master?" he questioned.

"Butler, we ride back to Necropolis. I do not like the portents of these circumstances," snapped Artemis. "Butler" merely bowed in acquiescence and together the pair moved off in the shadows.


End file.
